


Happy Hour at Sonic

by krysalys



Category: Sonic Restaurant RPF
Genre: Bad Dirty Talk, Commercials, M/M, Not My Fault, Oh My God, RPF, Real Life, Shameless Smut, Sonic the restaurant, Written By My Husband
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-24
Updated: 2017-07-24
Packaged: 2018-12-06 04:21:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 724
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11592816
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/krysalys/pseuds/krysalys
Summary: After suffering through the obvious flirting and obliviousness of the guys in the Sonic TV commercials, even my husband said they needed to just have sex already (I and my slash obsession have been a bad influence hehehehe).  So, since he could only find one fanfic, he decided to write his own & gave me permission to post it here for your amusement.





	Happy Hour at Sonic

**Author's Note:**

> This fic uses the actual actors' names, but is in no way making commentary on their private lives. This is a complete work of fiction, & is not meant to be offensive in any way. Please take it for the humorous parody of life that it was intended as, thank you.

It all felt so familiar. And yet a palpable shift was in the air.

Like every afternoon at 5pm, T.J. and Peter sat together in a car at Sonic, plowing through junk food and cracking wise. These merry manchildren knew nothing else in life, just sugar rushes and cheese-coated banter and the inside of a late-model domestic coupe.

T.J. was his usual spastic self, holding court from the passenger seat on the historical origins of “tots” and other pseudo-philosophy. His whole body jittered with the anti-calm of a rung bell.

But on this day, Peter was seized by melancholy. He felt a yearning, difficult to express to his drive-in partner in their common language, but visceral in origin. How could you sit this close to a man, day after day, and not really know him?

T.J. slurped his Blue Coconut Slush, coming perilously close to brain freeze. He half-sang. “I got the BLUUUUUES…you know, this Blue Coconut Slush gives you the blues, but you’re HAPPY! How does that even WORK?”

Peter held his last Ched’R Pepper in his hand, no longer hungry. “Do you sense an emptiness in your life.”

T.J. pretended to deny the change in tone. “Emptiness? Gosh, how could I be empty after a Bacon Cheeseburger Toaster. You know, on a scale of zero to fullness…”

“Stick out your tongue,” Peter commanded.

“UHHHHHHH,” T.J. moaned as he thrust out his tongue, neon blue from the Slush. 

Peter could have done without the noise. He responded, “You know what we could be? We could be Blue Coconut Twins!”

“Well yeah,” it occurred to T.J., “you could get your OWN Blue Coconut Slush, and we could BOTH stick out our tongues, UHHHHHH, that would be SO….um, what are you doing?”

Peter reclined his seat until he was fully prone. He unzipped his fly. “Make me a popsicle.” The implication was clear.

T.J. knew at that moment their friendship had crossed the Rubicon. Not just any Rubicon, but a Rubicon of manlove, flowing with ropy, pearly cum. A Rubicum.

He took one last gulp of the frozen blue concoction, swishing it around until it reached body temperature. Then, he went to work on Peter’s uncut man-sausage, rhythmically chickenheading the pole-beast as the baby-batter mounted its surge up the engorged shaft. Peter gripped the sides of his bucket seat, and erupted into T.J.’s mouth. As T.J. disengaged, he held the bolus of semen in his mouth, and then ingested a single Asian Sweet Chili Boneless Wing. He chewed. He swallowed. 

A carhop rolled through the parking lot with an order. Noticing the smoldering passionate display, she turned the palest shade of white and skated in terror back to the restaurant. It was her first day working at Sonic.

Peter separated himself from his Walmart khakis and turned onto his belly, his peach-fuzzed ass smiling toward the sunroof. “Ohhhh….flip me over and cook me until I’m done. WELL done…”

T.J. hoovered all the toppings from his Chili Cheese Coney, and massaged Peter’s eager anus with the naked frankfurter. The tube steak was not firm enough to penetrate the puckerhole on its own, so T.J. used his thumb and index finger as a phallic splint to coax it through the breach. 

Beside their car, a family of five sat eating their dinner in a minivan, hearing and seeing everything. They had just come from a funeral. Grandma died.

Peter’s starfish pulsated in ecstasy, clenching with each thrust, but gently enough to avoid pinching off the wiener. T.J.’s hunger grew, and as Peter reached a second climax, he removed his finger and began eating the exposed portion of the meaty treat, all the way down to the opening, before orally coaxing it from the rectal cave.

Peter and T.J both collapsed in exhausted joy. Everywhere, bodily fluids and dipping sauces adorned the vinyl upholstery. Inside the car, the aroma of fry oil commingled with the mushroomy scent of jizz to form a bittersweet musk. This was truly Happy Hour, not the ersatz, sober caloric rite for children, but a real grownup Happy Hour fueled by intoxicants and loosened inhibitions. These two men, once strangers in their own vehicle, were finally freed to enjoy the carnal treats of a no-longer-secret menu.


End file.
